


A Slowly Floating Butterfly

by Lyssandra_Med, wooden_turtle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fluff and Angst, springtime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23999479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wooden_turtle/pseuds/wooden_turtle
Summary: This was just as much a portion of her as were the circumstances of her birth, and while she knew that there had been a moment she could have chosen differently, she hadn’t.She couldn’t.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	A Slowly Floating Butterfly

**Author's Note:**

> “The blame for this, in fact, is that, behind their backs, there’s not a lover’s nook, no double bed to share to deeply dream on, no past – but only teems of your sisters in the air!”

This mass of a War was more a tumour than any sort of functioning beast. It remained malleable through the years and spread its tendrils until nearly all of their society had been choked and rendered into ancillary portions of itself. She had known this  _ thing _ would be their end ever since she was a child, ever since she had been sat down and had justifications shoved in her face. 

This was her life. This was the sole purpose of her form and knowledge, a sprout of malevolence given form and told to fight. It was just as much a portion of her as were the circumstances of her birth, and while she knew that there had been a moment she could have chosen differently, she hadn’t. She couldn’t. Every single time she thought back on that moment she reached a blockage within her mind, within her heart. No matter what she thought or argued the choices had been made and now there was no going back. 

If she  _ had _ tried then it would have been tantamount to admitting that she was nothing but a coward, a frightened girl who had been playing at war and not a treasured member who knew far more than any of her peers. All her friends and allies would be left to pick up after her abandoned duties. They would soldier on as best they could without any of her abilities or strengths. 

She couldn’t let them do that, no matter the temptation. 

\---

This method of finding excitement on the battlefield was becoming a regular occurrence. The first had been nothing more than random chance depositing them within spitting distance and danger flashing off as a result. 

But they lived, hard and cold, they lived. 

Random flukes becoming choice and decision, becoming a sudden  _ need _ to face off and see who came out as the victor. She wondered idly if this was to be their fate, rubble twisted off the mountaintops and them locked forever to be gnawed upon by rats and worms. A pair of faded corpses twined within an embrace of elegant death. 

A head of brown locks and frizz that seemed unending except when she could be bothered to prepare for battle and tie it all up. A head of black and curls that seemed just as purposeful as they were chaotic. A face of youth, a face of power. Beautiful the both of them but filled with grim determination and a desire for blood.

Again they met on the field, left destruction in their wake. Again they let all the others move around them and fought off those who sought to intercede on one or the other’s behalf. 

Again.

_ And again. _

Soon enough the irregularity became regular, and it wasn’t a proper battle if they weren’t somewhere on the field and tearing up the earth. There was a dignity in their motions, a desire to push forward into the limits of what a human body could accomplish. They both knew so much, knew so many  _ different _ things, knew just how to crash against one another while remaining whole and sane. 

Soon enough it wasn’t a battle unless death crashed down around them and still they danced, only to pull away when one side or the other prevailed, saving themselves for some monumental finale. 

One year.

Two.

If she were to admit that she looked forward to these clashes would she be seen as mad or labelled as merely broken?

She did not know, and while the question still sat inside her mind it took no precedence over anything else. It was simple curiosity, and the burgeoning flush of her cheeks when she saw her opposite number surely meant nothing at all.

Is a lie repeated vehemently enough a truth?

Spring came around again and with it the sudden feeling that this all would soon come to a close. Their world was fading, and could not support this endless war. 

Both sides had gathered what tattered remnants they had and pushed everything towards this one pitched battle. The Castle swarmed with life, ancient and cold, indifferent to their preparations after millennia of bloodshed it had seen. For the Castle it might as well have been just the same as every other spring it had withstood, there was nothing it could glean from the bodies already interred or the ones yet to fall. The outcome could not change its disposition and the abundant nature that was waking from winter’s sleep would come regardless of who won. Fields of green met their battlements, retreating snow and ice giving water to new growth and wild colour that attracted lazy insects and twittering birds.

Spring was green, but Hermione knew that soon enough it would be red.

\---

With little need to call attention to her movements Hermione had drifted and shuffled off to the edges of the battlefield before anyone even noticed. It was apparent that the attack that had been planned for the evening was still in motion even if the initial preparations had been a wash. The slow trickle of medicine and fighters left them holing up instead of venturing forth, and their opposing ranks were still nursing their wounds before they could push on. Stalemate, however mild, served her well.

The Castle was stifling. Growing up here had been a chore and a treat but dying beneath its arched ceilings wasn’t what she wanted.

_ She needed out. _

No one would get through their defences and long ago the few spies and assassins who could have gotten away with infiltration were found, executed and left to decorate the edges of their hard-won borders. There would be no surprise attack and there was only so much she could do before the trenches felt like tombs and nature called with a voice far more potent than her friends.

No one would miss her. They were all just counting down towards the end anyways, no one needed to spare her a moment of thought when all their own lives were in review.

With little care she walked towards needed space and distance, knowing she would find some form of solace within the forest. Harry had returned the night before and passed along the knowledge of the frontlines, the spaces occupied by adversaries and their wandering bands of scouts. She would be safe, calm and cared for within the forest.

And more than anything at all she craved that sense of simple, that warm calmness that could fill her mind just as she filled her lungs with the sweet aromas emanating from new growth. 

They all could feel the end was close and if she could not find some semblance of inner peace within the Castle, the forest would do. Walking, meandering, wandering all around until she found herself somewhere beautiful. 

The air was warm but not yet stifling for the time of year and what pollen travelled on it’s winds was sweet instead of sour. A clearing was her destination, a ring of trees along its edges and nothing much more substantial than a few shoots along the open ground. Winter had given it a thirst for sunlight and while the sight of new greenery was beautiful Hermione knew that it would fade eventually. 

For now, she could simply follow the beauty and approach the other wonder held within the circle. 

The normal vestments of battle were all stripped away to lay bare a woman who might have been more at home among the refined members of high society rather than in the trenches with Hermione. Elegance draped her in black, a dress just higher than her knees and dark as night. Creamy skin stood out underneath the gentle rays of the sun and patterned lace frilled all her edges. Her feet were bare and hidden among new grass, her shoulders revealed and scattered with freckles in unknown constellations. Hermione drew her gaze across the woman to travel the nest of black curls and sloping curves, a flush atop her cheeks and barely visible if she were to look away.

She didn’t. 

She stood and stared at dark eyes, a piercing gaze that swallowed her up. The intensity was less aggression and more interest, present and clear where before she had always seen madness and bloodshot eyes. 

That look was also beautiful to Hermione but for different reasons. For now she looked to be inviting, even if Hermione could perceive herself as the fly in this instance, the spider was far too intriguing to ignore. 

“Hello, Bellatrix.” Hermione greeted the older woman with words tumbling from her mouth and some sort of butterfly alighting in her stomach. “I didn’t think I’d find  _ you _ out here.”

The older woman smiled, something warm and welcoming, rueful and perhaps tinged with just the littlest bit of sadness. Hermione could name the reason for it if she wanted but to be perfectly honest, she didn’t want to. There was no reason. They both knew what was coming, it was all Hermione had ever known. They were all winding down towards some magnificent crescendo and for now she simply wanted to be elsewhere.

Bellatrix was elsewhere.

“Pet. Good to see you as well. Join me for some sun?”

Bellatrix waved her over with a flourish and sat down onto a bed of grass, Hermione moving swiftly to join at her side.

The greetings that passed between them were swift and perfunctory, barely more than a vague introduction that let them converse on far more interesting topics. Hermione sat splayed out on the warming ground, her hands threaded neatly behind her head and legs bent into the air. Bellatrix sidled closer, half laying down and half propped up, a tuft of grass in her fingers slowly being torn to shreds as they talked.

“We could leave,” Hermione said, after idle chatter gave way to more pertinent issues. She left her musings veiled and uncertain, let Bellatrix draw her own conclusion instead of giving voice to  _ what _ they could both leave. “Head out before nightfall and find ourselves somewhere else. Did you ever want to travel?”

Bellatrix, listening to her words and shrouding her face with attention paid to whatever was more interesting on the ground, kept silent. Mute. The subtle shaking of her head was the only answer. 

“No. I’ve travelled enough as is, mostly against my own wishes. Where I go now is by choice and I’m of a mind to stick to it. But,” she amended, noting the crestfallen look upon Hermione’s face, “I’d like to visit France. I have family there, though I haven’t heard from them in years.”

Hermione, perked at once by this acquiescence from the character of a hard-edged woman with no fear of her own demise, smiled at her companion.

“Where in France?”

\---

The afternoon somehow managed to pass them both by in a blur of soft words and careful movements. Contrary to what all her battlefield accomplishments would lead one to believe, Bellatrix was soft in many aspects. It was a surprise to Hermione, but one that left her delighted and intrigued. The older woman was warm, sometimes cold when the topic called for it, but otherwise she was an intelligently delightful woman in ways Hermione had never experienced. 

That her experiences were reduced to women fighting in a war was not lost on her, but she was certain that even if she had a broader perspective she would still think the same. Bellatrix could wax on about even the most minute things or give little treatises and lessons that sparked within Hermione a form of optimism. 

Optimism that was, inevitably, tempered by their placements on opposite ends of this war but optimism nonetheless. Her heart would not let that fact go, even as she fought to slot this complicated woman into her worldview. Not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination, but one she took to with relish.

Here lay the woman who had, on more than one occasion, nearly ended her life. Each time they had struck at one another there had been something to prevent them from finishing the dance. She had positively  _ feared _ the woman when she first saw her, had come to admire her in the middle of their time and now, for whatever particular reason or none at all, she found that she could enjoy her. Enjoy her fully, and in ways that weren’t tinged or led by the chaos of their usual lives. 

Hermione hesitated for a moment before prodding Bellatrix yet again, asking the same question and wondering if  _ now  _ the answer would be different.

For a moment there was no answer. No sound, nothing yet, just a beautifully pensive look and soft fingers that caressed Hermione’s hand in patterns that required no thought. A crinkle invaded Bellatrix’s brow and for a second Hermione was worried that she would be admonished for having asked it, told off as if she were a child.

It wasn’t what happened.

_ “I dreamed a butterfly in golden days, when buttercups lay in the field ablaze…” _

Hermione perked her ears and attempted to hide her surprise, recognition painting her face as words she had once read on faded pages were given life by this mysterious woman. Half-remembered, half-understood, her heart a sinking drop of lead into an ocean.

She knew these lines.

_ “It fluttered to my cheek, sweet love to bring. My heart was wont to burst and wont to sing. In scent of morn was bluebell sprays…” _

She knew these words and the knowing  _ hurt. _

“Really?” she questioned the woman, tone dropping and body moving closer until she could cover Bellatrix’s hand with her own. Her smile fled, face downturned as she internalised the answer. She was saddened by it but could not say she was surprised. She had expected nothing different, there was no chance that a simple d éte nte over the afternoon would break either of their wills. 

Their decisions were stone and this one moment would not change that. But she  _ could _ let Bellatrix know just what she thought of these positions, their chosen spots and iron will.

_ “To say that you’re no more? When you had lived so briefly. There is a lot of grief in the Creator’s joke! Before I could say lived, the fated day of your birth, the same as when I held your frame as it disintegrated, has left me in dismay, unable to take out the earlier amount within the day.” _

Her voice was soft. Her intonation muted. Quiet even as she threaded fingers into her own, let her chest fill with a warmth that Hermione knew she would cling to even in the end.

Bellatrix, for her part at least, seemed to be pleased by the sound of Hermione’s voice and she smiled back with twinkling eyes,  _ “On blossomed blankets of the fields we’d laze, and into one another’s eyes we’d gaze, my love and I, as April had her fling. I dreamed a butterfly.” _

The hand within Hermione’s grew hot, and with a startled gasp she pulled away to stand amid the grass, the woods, no one else to watch or judge her as silent tears rolled down her cheeks. She continued her own verse, built a strong rhythm that carried on with the creaking of her voice. 

Bellatrix stood to join her, clasped her hand as she began again.

_ “To say that there’s no you? But what is on my skin that seems so much akin to you? This hue is not born out of nothing. By whose insistence does colour fill existence? I doubt that I, while lacking the needed talent, a mumbling lump of words, could bring about these sorts of colours on the palette.” _

Their fingers threaded together once more as a weight settled into Hermione’s chest. She leaned in to trace her lips across the angles of Bellatrix’s neck, the older woman trembling beneath her touch. There was a naked heat between them both, muddied and tarnished underneath their battles and respective duties.

But Hermione stood there and enjoyed it for what it was. Peace. Quiet. A simple form of solace that they would not find again and Hermione  _ knew _ it was their only moment.

This terror, this enemy, this woman who had found her out upon the field of battle and singled her out for destruction and pain. This woman who had left those efforts behind and gave her instead sweet words with soft intent,  _ “Our bliss was as the spring, a fleeting phase and brief’s the beauty of young lover’s craze. As cruelly as a wasp, she left a sting and all the lovely plans we made took wing, leaving mere memories of golden days. I dreamed a butterfly.” _

It was an ending of sorts. Hermione knew it even as the words left Bellatrix’s throat, knew it even as a sob wrenched itself loose from her throat. She covered up her movement, her tears, pushed further into Bellatrix until they were no more than a millimetre apart. So close together that her breath was ghosting along the pale expanse of Bellatrix’s neck, her lips and tongue free to taste the salt upon her skin and the citrus tones of something stronger beneath. 

She committed it to her memory, decided then and there she would never forget it.

_ “You won’t respond to me, and silence is your right. It doesn’t come from spite or your humility, and not because you’re dead. Dead or alive, here, each of the Almighty’s wondrous creatures, tied by a common thread, received a voice so they could speak or sing, by instinct; as to prolong the instant, the minute, or the day.” _

She finished only minutes later, the verses all tumbling from her lips and Bellatrix still there to hear them. One second, two, their bodies pressed so close to one another that Hermione hoped, if only for just for a moment, that they would be inseparable. 

But they  _ were _ separable. They  _ could _ find themselves severed and torn apart, cleaved through and left wanting. A noise. A sound. Something back from where they came and with that invasion, it all tumbled down.

Hermione savoured the taste of Bellatrix’s lips upon her own before duty took hold over her heart. She faded with reluctance into the trees, her eyes alighting upon the blackened curls of her enemy for as long as she could. 

Lost, between foliage and green.

\---

The chosen spot for their final assault was filled with carcasses once all was said and done. Crows and ravens and larger birds whose beaks and talons were just as sharp had fled the furious theatrics, only to turn around and feast when the last combatant fell. Of all the bodies scattered around the land there were none more attended to by the carrion-birds than two women, locked in an eternal embrace.

The land that they fell upon was a heated and blasted scar, all of it formed from dark patches of ash and rock, char coating everything even as a light rain began to fall. Heaps of earth had been excavated during their battle and a fire had spread outwards from their centre until nearly a whole half of the field was gone from the intensity of the blaze.

None who lived to see past that day could swear on having seen anything deadlier, or more beautiful in its passion.

Bright green, haunting purples, hues and shades that no one had ever witnessed before.  _ Sounds _ that no one had imagined, the creaking and groaning of a  _ true _ battle. A cacophony of destruction and at the centre of it all had been the two women; one young and wild still, one older and draped in darkness.

The victors found them embracing, cold as a stone and just as immobile. Between them a butterfly came to rest, its pearlescent wings beating softly against the ground before, in a flourish of movement and energy, it alighted to the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> “Thus glides a pen across the paper’s surface, oblivious of purpose and yet content to not know what awaits the script, or where the heresy entwines true wisdom; it consigns to let the fingers’ grip take hold, as words pulsate while mutely shifting, not pollen lifting, but onerous weight.”
> 
> Bellatrix's Lines: "I Dreamed a Butterfly", by Andrea Dietrich, https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/i_dreamed_a_butterfly_458422  
> Hermione's Lines: "Butterfly", by Joseph Brodsky, as translated by Andrey Kneller, https://sites.google.com/site/poetryandtranslations/homepage1/manifesto


End file.
